


Banana Pancakes

by Villanon



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Caretaking, F/F, Fluff, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24678988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villanon/pseuds/Villanon
Summary: Post 3x08. My first Villaneve fic! It’s totally self-indulgent fluff but hoping others may enjoy it too.Villanelle is sick and Eve takes care of her / they start their new life together. Fluff fluff fluff.
Relationships: Eve Polastri - Relationship
Comments: 31
Kudos: 181





	1. Chapter 1

** Chapter 1 - Supermoon **

  
Eve wakes with a start. It takes her a few seconds to orientate herself and recall her surroundings; she's on a train to Oxenholme, a place she'd never even heard of until earlier tonight, and her heavy head is practically welded to Villanelle's shoulder. It feels nice. She hopes she hasn't been drooling.

"Go back to sleep," Villanelle whispers. "I'll wake you when we get there."

The world outside their train window is utterly black. Eve searches through hooded eyes for a glimpse of the full moon that had been suspended above them on London Bridge mere hours ago. She liked that moon. And she likes the idea that it played some sort of part in them both turning around. Maybe it helped strengthen some sort of gravitational pull, or something.

Villanelle sniffs wetly, and Eve wonders for a moment if she's crying. A quick glance up at her confirms that she isn't. 

"Do you believe in supermoons?" Eve asks, reluctantly lifting her head from the sanctity of Villanelle's shoulder.

"Really, Eve? It's 3 o'clock in the morning."

"I know. But do you?"

Eve didn't actually know what time it was, and knowing it now doesn't seem to make any difference. They're both awake and stuck on this train, catapulting towards their brand new life in Oxenholme. Well, their temporary, brand new life in Oxenholme. Eve assumes they'll soon be on the move again, once Carolyn sets them up with new identities and passports.

"What are you talking about?” Villanelle shifts in her seat, stretching and rolling her shoulders out now that they’re done hosting a sleeping Eve.

“I think it’s when a full moon gets really close to Earth and, and well, I don’t know exactly what it does. But some people think it makes things happen. You know, things that might not normally happen. Like us, tonight.”

“You think we’re sitting on this train together because of a moon?”

“A supermoon,” Eve corrects before considering her answer. “And no. Well, maybe. Yes. What do you think?”

Villanelle sniffs again.

“I think it’s one of the craziest things I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard a lot of crazy stuff. But,” Villanelle gives a little shrug. “I kind of love that you think it. If that counts.”

“It counts,” Eve nods with a happy smile, daring to lean back into Villanelle’s side. It feels natural and starkly new all at the same time. It makes her heart flutter. “How long until we get there?”

“Hours. You should sleep.”

Eve wonders when Villanelle will sleep tonight, and if she’ll even sleep at all. She looks too alert, her cat-like eyes darting around the almost empty train carriage.

“What about you?” Eve asks tiredly, threading her arm through Villanelle’s for a little extra security. She closes her eyes, lulled by the predictable motion of the train.

“Later.”

Villanelle sniffs again, this time reaching into the deep pocket of her egg yolk yellow coat to pull out a handkerchief. She dabs at her nose, sniffling a little deeper behind the crisp white fabric. Eve cracks open one eye.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s the stupid air con,” Villanelle gestures with annoyance at the little hole above them, which puffs out a stream of cold air.

Eve untangles herself from Villanelle just enough, so that she can reach up and shut the offending contraption off. 

“There,” Eve sighs contentedly, resuming her previous position. “Tell me about Oxenholme.”

Villanelle grabs her phone from the little fold out train table and does a quick Google. 

“Scenic. Lots of hills. Tiny town. Hmm,” Villanelle doesn’t sound pleased and Eve immediately knows why. Tiny town means everyone knows everyone, and they’re sure to notice two new faces. Eve says as much out loud, and Villanelle grins. “Especially a beautiful face like mine. Right, Eve?”

“Mm. Smart ass. Carry on.”

“Boring, boring, boring, really low crime rates...” Villanelle mumbles as she scrolls through her phone. “Oooh! They’ve had a fugitive before. In 1965, a John Middleton. He hid at the train station and shot two policemen.”

“We’re not fugitives.”

“We’re close enough,” Villanelle argues, sounding a bit disappointed. “I’m not exactly a law abiding citizen, Eve. And neither are you. Especially lately..."

Eve makes a small, agreeable sound as she buries her face into Villanelle’s coat. It smells like expensive perfume and London and, of course, Villanelle. She has a heady, saccharine smell and Eve can’t get enough of it.

“Just wake me when we get there,” Eve murmurs sleepily, before adding: “And don’t shoot anyone without me.”

“Promise.”


	2. Oxenholme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive in Oxenholme...

Villanelle wakes Eve with a gentle nudge as they pull into Oxenholme station. The first thing Eve notices is that the night, along with their supermoon, has been chased away by the amber-y glow of daybreak.

They hurry to get their bags. Eve only has one small duffle but Villanelle has two suitcases; the first packed full of designer clothes, and the other full of cash. Blood money. Eve decides there’s little point dwelling on its origins, because if they’re going to disappear and start over they definitely need it.

Villanelle is unusually quiet, her green eyes scanning the length of the platform and searching for any potential threat. She seems guarded and distant, and Eve assumes she’s slipped into survival mode where only the absolutely necessary can filter in.

And then Eve sees him. A security guard tucked into a brick alcove up ahead. His uniform is worn, creased and encroaching on being at least a size too small for his portly frame. Villanelle sees him too, she can tell from the way she prickles beside her. From the subtle change in her stance, feet shifting apart, knuckles whitening around the handles of her suitcases.

_ She’s off her game, she’s way off her game,_ Eve thinks. Alarm bells ringing unremittingly in her head as she finds herself almost frozen to the spot, almost prepared to see how this might play out. Almost.

“Villanelle,” she hisses and then says it again but louder this time and more exasperated. “Villanelle! Hey!” She grabs her wrist, feels the thud of her fast pulse beneath her fingertips. “He’s fine! Look at him.” There’s a tense pause as they both look again at the balding security guard, at the exact moment he spills half his takeaway coffee down his pant leg. “The only thing he’s packing is a Krispy Kreme.”

Villanelle clucks her tongue and exhales, casually shrugging off her previous demeanour like an old coat.

“He looked shifty.”

“So you thought you’d go all John Middleton on him?”

“I don’t have a gun,” Villanelle points out, as though that makes any difference to the damage she can do. “And we’re not fugitives, remember?”

Eve rolls her eyes, feeling a familiar wave of frustration. _How can someone so utterly captivating be so very annoying all at the same time_?

Villanelle breaks Eve’s inner inquiry with a congested blow into her handkerchief. The sound is so thick that Eve can only imagine how packed with pressure her head must be feeling, and Villanelle confirms the theory with a slight wince.

“Are you sick?”

“No, don’t be stupid. I don’t get sick.”

Eve shoots her an incredulous look, almost laughing out loud at the absurdity of her.

“Villanelle, everyone gets sick! Even a badass assassin like you.”

“Ex-badass-assassin,” Villanelle corrects, looking noticeably pleased about the badass bit. “That’ll be our car.”

Eve follows her gaze towards the pick up and drop off area where a lone taxi is waiting, engine running. The whole tiny town thing springs back into Eve’s mind, and she feels terribly conspicuous all of a sudden. But then, being the only arrivals on a platform and getting into the only taxi at a station will do that to you. Oh, and the fact they’re being hunted down by an all-seeing, all-powerful organisation of course. Can’t forget that. 

“Come on,” Villanelle’s impatient, slightly whiny voice snaps her out of her mini panic. “These bags are heavy you know!"

"Sorry," she apologises automatically, but then adds with a small smirk: "I thought you'd be okay, what with being so superhuman and all."

"Very funny, Eve."

With their bags safely stashed in the boot, they bundle into the back of the taxi together. Eve expects the driver to chat because that's what tends to happen in London, where everyone has a story to tell or be told, but mercifully he's quiet.Eve takes a moment to appreciate this inlet of calm, leaning back in her seat and focussing on the classical music that filters out of the tinny speakers.

"It's a criminal," Villanelle whispers. "To play something so beautiful on speakers like this."

Eve gives an agreeable murmur, intrigued by Villanelle's appreciation for... well, she wasn't sure what song it was, or who had composed it. To be honest it all sounded much the same to her. Niko had liked classical music though, or at least appeared to show a preference for it. She was never quite sure what Niko actually liked, he was the sort of man who chose a CD because it was in the reduction bin, or a shirt because he hadn't got many yellow ones. He wasn't truly passionate about anything.

“Do you know this piece?” Eve finds herself asking, her curiosity far more piqued than it ought to be. But then it always is when it comes to her. 

“Of course I do,” Villanelle looks almost outraged at the suggestion she wouldn’t. “Do you think that I am uncultured, Eve?”

Eve sighs, relenting to the fact she’s never going to get a simple answer out of Villanelle.

“Of course not,” she somewhat soothes as Villanelle sniffs and blows her nose again. “I just wondered.”  _ And I guess I’ll just keep on wondering,_ she thinks.

“Do  ** you ** know it?” Villanelle throws the question back as she slides a little lower in her seat. She suddenly looks very relaxed and very tired.

“No, I don’t,” Eve answers honestly. Villanelle smiles to herself, clearly pleased.

“It’s Gymnopédie number 2. By Erik Satie.”

“It’s a beautiful piece,” the taxi driver weighs in, speaking for the first time.

“But not as beautiful as number 1.”

“True,” he agrees.

Eve finds herself transfixed on Villanelle, Villanelle who is so full of surprises. So full of... cold. Eve watches the blonde give in helplessly to a sneeze.

“I am not sick,” Villanelle protests immediately. “People sneeze all the time, Eve.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Eve holds her hands up innocently, but decides to stay quiet for the rest of the journey in the hope Villanelle might get some much needed sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the formatting is okay as I tend to write on my phone at random opportunities!!
> 
> I have another chapter written up if you want it...
> 
> Thank you for all the precious kudos & comments it keeps me going.


	3. Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice bit of calm before the inevitable storm...

They pull up outside a cottage some twenty minutes later. Villanelle is still awake, though barely, and Eve can see it takes a huge amount of effort for her to rise up straight in her seat. As a result she pulls out an excessively generous wad of cash to pay the driver, which Eve quickly intercepts and reduces down to a more appropriate sum. The last thing they need is to draw more attention to themselves, and a £200 tip would definitely do that.

The cottage is undeniably small and quaint, with a thatched roof and window boxes full of colourful geraniums. After checking her phone for instruction, Villanelle extracts the front door key from a small key safe disguised as a stone. She makes a show of opening the door, and waving Eve through first with a dramatic sweep of her arm.

It’s no surprise that the cottage continues its theme of being small and quaint on the inside. The living room is cosy; there’s a deep red sofa topped with a multicoloured crochet blanket, and lots of little knickknacks dotted across the open fireplace. Little cat and dog ornaments, that kind of thing. It’s not the sort of place she associates Villanelle. She’s more your lofty apartment or obscenely expensive hotel sort of girl. Or so Eve thinks anyway.

“This is cute,” Villanelle says as though reading her mind. “Not my taste at all, but cute.” Her voice has taken on a slightly grainy quality, and Eve isn’t sure if it’s from illness or lack of sleep. She ashamedly admits to herself that she quite likes it, in the same way that she likes anything new she discovers about Villanelle. “Are you hungry? Do you want pancakes?”

And just like that she’s back to whirlwind-Villanelle, launching herself through an open archway at the back of the cottage into its very tiny, very retro kitchen.

“I paid extra for groceries,” she goes on, cheerfully opening the cupboards, drawers and fridge. “Susan, the owner, was only too happy to help out a clueless rich girl from the big city,” she speaks momentarily with a London accent and it’s flawless, marred only by a little sniffle at the end.

“Very impressive,” Eve breathes out, not sure if she’s referring to the groceries or Villanelle’s vocal talents. “I would like pancakes, but I’ll make them. You should rest.”

“Eve, I’m fine. I slept in the taxi.”

“No you didn’t, I was...” _watching you_ , she catches herself and only thinks the last part; but Villanelle has already filled in the blanks.

“Can’t keep your eyes off me, huh?”

“Just go and sit down,” Eve shakes her head, half-smiling as she enters the kitchen in attempt to shoo Villanelle out. “Please. Go, sit.”

“But I want to make you pancakes! _Banana_ pancakes!” Villanelle says with big, excited eyes. She opens a drawer, pulling out an eclectic hand-whisk she spotted moments earlier. “And I really want to do it with one of these things.”

“You shouldn’t be operating machinery of any kind right now.”

“You’re no fun, Eve.” 

“Ugh. You know what? Fine. Get the eggs. But you’re not touching the frying pan.”

They make pancakes. Blobby, funny shaped pancakes that are slightly too-brown at the edges and yet strangely soggy in the middle. Villanelle says banana pancakes are supposed to be like this, and Eve is happy to pretend she believes her.

Eve sets up the little fold out table that’s tucked against the back wall, whilst Villanelle makes some effort to tidy up the gigantic mess they’ve made. She sneezes periodically, muttering in Russian and blaming it on the flour. The whole scene is oddly normal and domestic, and Eve thinks she could get used to making imperfect banana pancakes every morning.

“This is nice,” Eve says once they’re finally sat down and eating.

“The pancakes are awful.”

“Yup. Really terrible,” Eve agrees with a laugh. “But this is still nice.”

“It’s perfect."

They go upstairs after to unpack. Eve isn’t particularly surprised to find there’s only one bed, and the thought of sharing it with Villanelle makes her feel quite giddy. The giddiness stops abruptly when Villanelle says not to worry, she’ll sleep downstairs on the sofa. Eve suspects she’s trying to be chivalrous, this new Villanelle, and she swallows her disappointment with a weak nod. She thinks it tastes worse than their pancakes.

Grabbing her duffel bag, Eve heads straight to the oak wardrobe. She busies herself, taking far longer than necessary to unfold and re-fold her clothes before finally putting them away. Her clothes are all dark: blacks, navy blues and khaki greens. She suspects Villanelle’s selection will be far more crazy and colourful, and, as she pulls out her own plaid pyjamas, she starts to wonder what Villanelle wears to bed. Or if she wears anything at all.

“That’s me unpacked,” she announces, chasing the unruly thoughts from her head. “How are you getting on? There’s plenty of space in here if you need it.”

There’s no answer, and Eve sighs to herself before shutting the wardrobe door with some cathartic finality. She turns round, expecting to find Villanelle part way through her own unpacking, but instead she finds her flat out on the bed - fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet, so I've uploaded chapter 4 as well.
> 
> Thanks again for the support :)


	4. Florence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh I had fun writing this one!

Eve feels kind of creepy watching her, but she can’t help herself. She finds it fascinating to see her so disarmed. So peaceful and human looking. Eve longs to take off Villanelle’s heavy boots and position her a little more comfortably on the bed, but the risk of waking her outweighs any benefit. And she knows how much she needs this sleep.

Eve settles instead on option B, which is to get a book from the bookcase downstairs and position herself on the other side of the bed. Reading. But not really reading. She turns pages and attempts to run her eyes over the words, but she can’t stop herself from glancing back at Villanelle. She learns the pattern of her breathing, watches the occasional roll of her eyelids. Hears her cough a rattle-y cough that almost wakes her, but doesn’t. And thinks about how shit she’s going to feel when she eventually wakes up to find her cold has well and truly blossomed, in the way that new colds do when you go to sleep. 

_She’s probably going to need some taking care of_ , Eve thinks. And then feels a swell of delight that she’ll be the one who gets to do it. 

Another hour passes before Eve decides to puts her book down and make a start. She heads back downstairs to the kitchen and sets upon raiding the cupboards, pulling out honey, fresh lemons and a box of paracetamol. She hesitates for a moment, questioning herself. She’d never taken care of Niko, or anyone really, because they’d always been the ones to take care of her. No. It wasn’t just that. Eve frowns introspectively. She hadn’t wanted to take care of anyone. That felt more accurate, more honest. When Niko got sick she’d always conveniently have to work late; or she’d tell him she didn’t have time to get sick, and she’d sleep downstairs on the sofa. She wonders if she was really that terrible at being a wife, and if she was why she didn’t see it sooner? Why didn’t Niko say anything? And why does it feel so different with Villanelle?

**Thud**. 

There was a definite thud from upstairs, and Eve’s first thought is that Villanelle has rolled off the bed. Grabbing the paracetamol, she abandons the other items for now and rushes back up the rickety staircase. 

Villanelle’s boots are on the floor, which explains the thud, and Eve breathes a sigh of relief when she sees that the blonde is still safely positioned on the mattress; her relief however is only temporary.

“Oh God, Eve,” Villanelle moans, curling into a foetal position. “Eve, I think I’m dying!”

Eve doesn’t know what to say, or what to do, and she guesses that comes from a lifetime of not looking after anybody but herself. 

“Shit. Why wasn’t I a better wife,” she mutters and Villanelle moans even louder. “Sorry, rhetorical question. Really bad timing.”

Eve edges over to the bed, perching uneasily, while Villanelle continues to groan and clutch at her head with her hands.

“I think my face is going to explode,” Villanelle sounds as stuffed up as she is distressed, and Eve’s offering of paracetamol suddenly feels like it falls very short. “I think I’ve been poisoned.”

“You haven’t been poisoned,” Eve soothes with an ever so slight smile, her hand reaching over one of Villanelle’s. “You’re sick. You’ve got a bad cold, but you’ll feel better in a few days.”

“Or I’ll be dead,” Villanelle laments, stilling slightly under Eve’s gentle touch. “I need tissues.”

“Okay,” Eve nods. _Tissues, I can do tissues,_ she thinks. “I brought you some paracetamol up.” She offers the box, sliding it along the mattress.

“Water?” 

_Ah. Water. Of course._

“No. But I’ll get some.” Villanelle raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, and Eve wonders if her complete lack of experience has already been rumbled. “I’ll be right back.”

Eve runs the narrow staircase again to fetch a glass of water and tissues, while Villanelle coughs and moans some more though a little less melodramatically now. 

“Here,” Eve practically throws the items at her when she returns, sloshing half the water over the bedsheets and hitting her in the face with the tissue box.

“You’re not very good at this, Eve.”

_Definitely rumbled._

“I, err, tripped over your boot,” Eve says instinctively, wincing a little at her white lie. Villanelle doesn’t catch it, she’s too busy coughing. “You sound awful."

“I feel awful,” Villanelle admits as she pops two paracetamol out the packet and downs them. “Will you come and sit with me?”

And there it is. The moment Eve realises she’s been waiting for. Villanelle stares at her, waiting for a response, all green eyes, pink cheeks and messy hair. 

“Of course,” Eve says with confidence, like she’s done it a thousand times before. Like she’s Florence fucking Nightingale.

Eve climbs onto the bed, fluffs her own pillows and attempts to get comfortable; all the while debating her next move.

“Should I - do you -“ she starts, looking down at herself, indicating her physical availability. “You can lie on me if -“ Apparently that’s all Villanelle needs to hear, she tumbles onto Eve’s chest like an overexcited puppy and sighs contentedly. 

“I like to be stroked,” Villanelle mumbles, her words dulled by congestion. 

“What?”

“My hair, Eve. Stroke my hair.” 

“Oh.” 

Eve dutifully pulls on the elastic that’s just-barely holding Villanelle’s bun in place, releasing her golden hair and letting it spill across her back and shoulders. She toys with the ends between her fingertips for a moment, her brain not quite able to compute this is happening. So much has happened in the last 24 hours, and there was something so different about Villanelle. Something softer, something a little broken, she’d seen it at the tea dance.

Villanelle shifts suddenly, taking a snuffley, huffy breath.

“Eve? You’re not stroking.”

“Sorry,” Eve drops the feathery end she was playing with and resumes her ministrations at the root, letting the soft strands fall through her fingers like sand.

They stay like that for several, peaceful minutes and Eve thinks she must be doing an okay job because Villanelle hasn’t said another word. And then Villanelle starts to fidget, rubbing her nose and face. She pauses for a few seconds, as though considering whether she’s done, before pushing away from Eve abruptly with a shuddering breath and sneeze.

“Gesundheit!”

Villanelle shakes her head at the premature blessing and sneezes again, groaning with frustration. And pain? Eve watches as the blonde pitches forward and places a hand over her ribs. 

“Are you hurt?” Eve asks, sounding more accusing than she intends. Like it’s her business to know, but then she sort of feels it is. Villanelle looks irked.

“No.”

“I suppose you don’t get hurt either?” Eve can’t help herself; she’s annoyed, probably irrationally annoyed, but annoyed nonetheless. “You know if this is going to work we have to be honest with each other.”

Villanelle pulls a face, letting Eve’s words roll over her.

“This...as in... ?”

“ _This_ as in _us_ , you idiot!” Eve’s mouth gets the better of her brain again, and she watches Villanelle like a hawk for some kind of reaction. She considers that calling an ailing ex-assassin an idiot probably wasn’t a wise move, especially as Villanelle just keeps staring that intense stare of hers.

And then Villanelle’s off, heaving herself off the bed and onto her feet. She looks pissed. And pale. Eve feels her stomach drop as she mentally kicks herself for ruining the moment, and her chance to make Villanelle feel a little better. 

“I haven’t really looked so,” Villanelle shrugs, pulling up the hem of her pinstripe top to just below her bra. 

“Oh... ouch...” Eve winces on Villanelle’s behalf at the large, black and purple bruise across the left side of her rib cage. “When did that happen?”

“Umm, somewhere between our tea dance and me eating Fangtastics with your weird office friends.”

“Okay...” Eve pieces together. “So it was the work of our party crasher?”

“Mm-hmm,” Villanelle nods, dropping her top and flopping back onto the bed. “As much as I love you playing detective can we do it later. I’m very sick, remember?”

“Nice try. What happened?”

“God you’re annoying,” she mutters, but visibly gives in, falling back against a pillow. “We were at the train station...”

“We? Which we? Be specific,” Eve’s directness earns her an impressed eyebrow raise from Villanelle.

“Let’s see, there was me, some lunch time commuters,” Villanelle draws the words out slowly and Eve thinks she might be the worst deliberately bad storyteller ever. “The weather was a little chilly, and I was wearing that very expensive, very devastating suit...” 

“Not that specific.”

“Fine. I was with a very comfortably dressed lady called Rhian.”

“Rhian,” Eve repeats the unfamiliar name. “I don’t know her. Who is she?” _To you_ , she wants to add, but manages to stop herself.

“I think the question is, who _was_ she,” Villanelle corrects with a cough and a frown. “All this talking isn’t good for me, Eve. My throat is very dry and scratchy.”

“What did you do,” Eve doesn’t even make it a question and it’s lands flat between them. 

“She worked for Hélène. She was an assassin like me. Not as good as me, obviously. Or not as good as I used to be anyway, before...” Villanelle trails off, picking at some imaginary fluff on the duvet. “Anyway, we had a little falling out over this whole sheep thing, and one thing led to another...”

“And?”

“And I,” Villanelle falters, her skin looking even more sallow. “And I karate kicked her onto the train lines right as the 12.15 train pulled in.”

“Okay,” Eve swallows thickly. “So you’re telling me, you killed Helene’s second favourite assassin and you didn’t think to mention it sooner?”

“Well, you were so happy with all that talk of moons and stuff. It didn’t feel right to say hey, guess who I just massacred,” Villanelle manages to choke out the last few words before she dissolves into a coughing fit. 

Eve sighs and rolls her eyes, her anger feeling suddenly futile. It isn’t like Villanelle is in any fit state for a prolonged and relatively pointless argument after all.

“Well, congratulations,” she says finally. “It looks like you’ve just bumped us up to the top spot on the Twelve’s most wanted list. Wouldn’t you say?”

Villanelle drinks what’s left of her glass of water and clears her throat before answering.

“Hélène is going to be pretty pissed, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then I take it back.”

“What? You take what back?” Villanelle looks worried, her mouth twisting into a little knot in the corner. Eve wonders what thoughts are running through her head, and extends her silence longer than she ought to as she tries to figure them out.

“What I said on the train.”

“About the magic moon?”

_Supermoon._

“No, the thing about us not being fugitives.”

“Oh?”

“We so are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed it - I have a few more in the bag and I'll try and get them up soon.


	5. Foibles

Eve watches Villanelle from behind her book, her dark eyes slightly narrowed with irritation. They’ve spent the last few hours stuck in some kind of loop with Eve pretending to read, and Villanelle pulling a tissue from the box every ten minutes or so, sneezing into it, crumpling it up and tossing it onto the floor by her side of the bed.

It’s all very, very irritating. 

When Villanelle reaches for her next tissue Eve intervenes, unable to help herself. 

“You know you can use a tissue more then once, right? And that there’s a bin just over there?”

Villanelle, who has the tissue half raised to her face, eyes-hooded and mouth part open in expectation of a sneeze, groans.

“Are you joking, Eve?”

“Global warming isn’t a joke. You’re being very wasteful. And messy.”

“Seriously? You are actually serious right now?”

“Yes,” Eve says simply as Villanelle drops her unused tissue into her lap, her sneeze long gone. “I’m just saying, you could be a bit more...”

“What, a bit more what, Eve?” Villanelle looks half-way to furious and Eve feels a niggle of regret. She wishes she could just go back to pretend-reading her book.

“Considerate.”

“Pah!” Villanelle laughs loudly. “That’s a joke coming from you! You’re by far the least considerate, you’d make a really terrible nurse you know.”

The words hit a nerve - obviously - because Eve is all too aware of her own foibles when it comes to caring for others; but also because she thought she’d done a pretty good job of concealing that particular flaw from Villanelle. She’d stroked her hair, fetched her essential items like tissues, what more did she want?

“Well, that’s probably because you’re such a crappy patient.” _Oh dear. Oh God._ Eve wants to slap herself before Villanelle does it for her. Why couldn’t she have just apologised and let it go? But no, she finds herself doing the exact opposite and carrying on her mini tirade. “I very _considerately_ ,” they lock eyes, “told you to take a hot shower, to clear some of your congestion. And you haven’t. You’ve just sat here. Wasting tissues and feeling sorry for yourself.”

Villanelle lets Eve’s outpouring fester between them for a moment, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She doesn’t look annoyed anymore, she looks a bit...smug.

“I couldn’t take a shower, Eve,” she sighs dejectedly. “Even though I wanted to, I couldn’t.”

Eve briefly squeezes her eyes shut, not knowing what’s coming but knowing it’s sure to reflect very poorly on her. She doesn’t want to ask, she doesn’t want to give Villanelle the satisfaction; but she has to. Curiosity is one of her defining characteristics, and sometimes her need to sate it is suffocating. 

“Why couldn’t you take a shower?”

There’s a flash of triumph in Villanelle’s eyes, and Eve knows she’s just played straight into her hands. 

“I don’t know if I know the word in English...” Villanelle delays in a small, sweet voice, that has Eve rolling her eyes. “I didn’t feel well enough to shower. My head,” she gestures vaguely around her temple. “It’s...you know...” she twirls her hand a little. “Round and round. Like that.”

“Dizzy. You feel dizzy,” Eve offers flatly, keeping her concern on mute because she’s not quite sure how truthful Villanelle is being. Plus she’s pretty sure she knows a simple word like dizzy in English, and probably dozens of other languages as well.

“Mm,” Villanelle nods, sniffling. “It’s probably because I haven’t had any lunch, or anything to drink since that tiny glass of water you spilled all over me.”

_Shit_.

Eve feels bad, legitimately bad. For a moment she wants to argue that Villanelle is perfectly capable of getting her own food and drink, but she realises that only makes herself look worse. Villanelle is sick after all, she might not be at death’s door but she’s still sick. And Eve should be looking after her, because that’s what... _friends?_... do. And surely they’re more than friends now? Or at the very least they’re well on their way to being more. _Lots more,_ Eve hopes. And that definitely makes this whole thing a lot, lot worse.

“Also,” Villanelle adds for good measure, when no response is forthcoming from Eve. “You ruined my sneeze.”

Eve draws a deep breath, setting her unread book down on the bedside table before finally turning to face Villanelle. 

“I’m sorry,” she says solemnly.

“For?”

Eve shrugs a little, trying to work her mouth around a suitable response.

“For being an asshole?” She tries, and Villanelle nods to indicate she’s stumbling along the right lines. “I didn’t even think about lunch, I...”

“It’s okay, Eve,” Villanelle dismisses, suddenly backtracking, perhaps to deflect that she might actually care and that Eve’s apology might actually mean something. “I’m not very hungry now anyway.”

Eve frowns, real concern nipping at her insides. 

“You need to eat. Let me make you something. Please?”


	6. Adorable

Eve makes sandwiches and she makes them with flourish. She adds garnish and a little pile of crinkle cut crisps on the side, and dices up some fruit for dessert. _It’s apology food,_ she thinks. And it’s another first for her. She never made Niko a sorry-sandwich, or any other sort of forgive-me-I-was-an-asshole food before. 

Villanelle has moved to the couch in the living room, and Eve has to admit that huddled under the crochet blanket with her blonde hair flowing around her she looks surprisingly adorable. _Who knew she could look adorable?_ Not Eve. Sexy, strong, sophisticated, yet also a little garish at times ( _in a good way_ ), yes. Definitely. But adorable? No, that was new.

“Here you go,” Eve presents lunch with far more pride than anyone should ever have when presenting a mere sandwich, but why deny it? She is proud. And this isn’t just any sandwich. “My apology, in bread form.”

Villanelle’s coughing subsides into a slightly raspy chuckle as she accepts the plate.

“Merci,” Villanelle says all cheerful and French and, again, adorable. Eve considers fleetingly that adorable Villanelle might be her final undoing. “This is very sweet, Eve. No one’s ever given me an edible apology before.”

“That’s me,” Eve muses with a soft smile. “Groundbreaking.”

They both eat hungrily. Eve manages to preserve her usual precision and care, but Villanelle indulges like she hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks. Eve eyes her as she alternates a juicy slice of fruit with a chunk of torn bread and cheese, her fingers sticky and coated in crumbs. 

“Sorry,” Villanelle says when she catches her looking. “Table manners aren’t really my thing. I can pretend to have them though, if you like?”

Eve processes the offering for a second; she takes in Villanelle’s big green eyes and open expression, and realises she’s serious. 

“No,” Eve shakes her head coolly. “No, that’s that’s okay. I’d like you to just be you.”

“Hmm,” Villanelle hums quietly and goes back to her food. If Eve’s answer means anything to her she doesn’t show it, and that only leaves Eve feeling more and more invested.

_You’re such a mystery,_ she wants to say. But she doesn’t. Instead she goes back to picking at her crisps and watching Villanelle devour what’s left on her plate from the corner of her eye.

Moments later, Villanelle stops. Hands stilling, chin lifting ever so slightly as she squints off into a far corner of the room. Eve watches her take a few, shallow, throat-catching breaths, before she seems to shake whatever it is off and resume eating.

“What was that?”

“What?”

Eve sighs louder than she expects, exasperated with these seemingly dead-end conversations. 

“That weird breathing thing that you literally just did?”

“Oh that,” Villanelle acknowledges casually, as though she isn’t just being awkward for the sake of it. But Eve knows she is. Well, she’s at least 80% sure. “You know that sneeze you scared away?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s stuck. It’s like you literally broke my nose.”

“Oh,” Eve frowns. “That’s weird.”

“Yeah. And **really** annoying.”

Eve clasps her hands in her lap, not really sure what else to say. 

“I’m sorry? Do you want another sandwich?”

Villanelle laughs, properly laughs, and even with her croaky throat it’s loud and brash. Eve thinks it’s probably one of the purest sounds she’s ever heard. _She should definitely laugh like that more._

“Thanks but no,” Villanelle smiles, before leaning back into the sofa with a large yawn. “No apology food needed. You’re good, Eve.”

_You’re good,_ Eve replays that little gem in her head a few times; basking in her well-earned redemption. 

“Villanelle...”

“Mm?”

“I need to talk to you about something.”


	7. Undoing

"I need to talk to you about something."

_Why, did I say it? Why, why, why?_ The why question pretty much plays on repeat in Eve's head, it's like a stuck record. It might even be a bit like Villanelle's stuck sneeze. It's certainly pretty damn annoying.

"That sounds ominous," Villanelle puts a little extra pressure on the word ominous as it falls from her mouth, her accent a little thicker around all those glorious vowels.

"Err," Eve stalls, debating with herself whether she actually wants to go down this path. Whether there's actually any chance of still scrambling back up it, now she's started. "It's really not that big of a deal, actually.”

Villanelle coughs into her shoulder, the kind of cough that sounds nagging and unfinished. Eve waits a few beats before continuing.

"So, the thing is-"

Of course Villanelle coughs again, this time hunching right over and waving an apologetic hand in Eve’s direction. Eve glances to the ceiling, possibly searching for some higher power but even she's not really sure.

_Even when we're completely alone in the middle of nowhere there's always something, isn't there? Where's my supermoon when I need it?_

"Sorry," Villanelle finally recovers enough to speak, her eyes red and watery, and her nose a little more sniffly. “You can go now.”

“Go?”

“Go, as in speak. It’s an expression, right?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” Eve acknowledges with a nervous hand through her hair, failing to notice that this instantly catches Villanelle’s rapt attention. “Okay, so, I wanted to talk about this thing that’s going on. With us.”

“What thing?” Villanelle exudes blissful ignorance, her eyes still combing Eve’s head as she settles back against the sofa. She looks relaxed, but Eve suspects she’s designed it that way.

“Well, it’s about how you are,” Eve looks expectantly at Villanelle, to see if any of this is striking a chord. “And how I’m trying to be... because I haven’t really done this before and-“

“Wow. Eve.”

“What?”

“I get it,” Villanelle sits forward, placing a reassuring hand on Eve’s thigh. “This is a sex thing, right?”

“Umm-“

“Look, you don’t have to worry about it. It’s not like I’m in any fit state right now anyway, but when I am and you’re ready, we’ll just take it slow. Okay?”

Eve opens and closes her mouth like a goldfish, the near-death kind that hangs about at the bottom of the tank.

“It’s, err, that’s not...” Eve takes a sobering breath. “That’s not quite where I was going with this, but thank you. It’s good to know your, um, position. Currently. So to speak.”

“Oh, okay,” Villanelle shrugs, completely unabashed by her misjudgment. “Well, I’m always happy to discuss positions, Eve.”

Eve puts her head in her hands, not sure whether to laugh or cry at this point.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I don’t know what t-that m-means,” Villanelle stutters, her breath coming in quick pulls as she tips her head back and looks very much like she’s going to finally sneeze this time. But doesn’t. “Ugghhhh! What if I can never sneeze again?”

Villanelle looks genuinely concerned, and Eve has to tuck her lips together to hide a small smile. The word adorable re-running laps in her head.

“Maybe you’re just overthinking it.”

“Maybe,” Villanelle sniffs sadly.

“So, what I was trying to say,” Eve steers them back on topic, although Villanelle is beginning to sag against the sofa by this point and it really feels like the moment has most definitely gone. “You’re sick, right?”

“Obviously, Eve. This is making my head hurt. Will you just say it.”

_Right. Here goes._

“I want to take care of you. Like, really want to. I have all these little scenarios in my head about it actually,” this seems to pique Villanelle’s interest again. “But the thing is, I haven’t actually ever done it before. Not even for Niko. In fact, I actively avoided anything remotely close to it with Niko.”

Villanelle looks thoughtful, and a little foggy, like she’s trying to follow but got lost somewhere a few sentences back. Probably on the ‘little scenarios’ line.

“I suck at it,” Eve summarises finally. “I’m not good at looking after someone else. But I want to try. And I’m really trying, with you.”

“Oooh,” Villanelle breathes out, her eyes widening over Eve’s face. “That’s a lot to take in, Eve.”

“I just wanted to be honest.”

“Honest is good,” Villanelle looks down at herself for a moment, wetting her lips. “If it helps at all-“

“Yes?” Eve jumps eagerly on whatever Villanelle’s about to say, seeking a connection, or her opinion or her anything, really.

“Well, I’m actually not that good at letting anybody take care of me so,” Villanelle shrugs a big shrug, like she wants to disassociate from the words the moment they leave her. “And anyway, no one’s ever looked after me before, not properly,” she shifts uncomfortably, like she’s a little untethered by her own admission. “But I like it when you do. Even though you do really, really suck at it.”

“I want to kiss you,” Eve blurts out and Villanelle looks beyond surprised.

“Like this?” Villanelle indicates to the state of herself. “I’m pretty gross, Eve. And you might get, what do you Americans say? Coyotes.”

“You mean cooties,” Eve laughs and Villanelle shrugs again. “I don’t care.” Cooties or coyotes, she’ll happily take her chances.

They stare at each other, neither quite sure who is going to move first. It’s a bit like their tea dance, Eve shifts forward and then Villanelle, and then Eve again.

“Are you leading or am I?” Villanelle whispers, clearly thinking the same thing, and apparently that’s the green light Eve needs.

With hindsight she probably leaps at Villanelle a little more forcefully than she should - she is sick and a bit bruised after all - but Eve thinks she might have literally exploded if she waited any longer.

After recovering from the initial hit, Villanelle kisses her back with equal vigour, her hands losing themselves in Eve’s hair as she moans gutturally into her mouth.

“О Боже, Eve...”

_Fireworks._ Eve’s pretty sure she sees fireworks. She throws the ugly crochet blanket to the floor and takes its place, straddling Villanelle’s lap.

She kisses her everywhere, lips, eyelids, neck and that thready pulse point below her ear. Villanelle seems to like that spot especially, and there’s a lot more Russian words falling from her mouth now in between her own, hungry kisses to Eve’s collarbone.

And then, gradually, they both soften and Eve pulls herself back, drinking her in. She smooths her thumbs around the pale skin of her face. _Oh, and it really is so beautiful,_ Eve thinks and then she kisses her again. Slower this time, paying attention to every little detail. Every involuntary twitch of even the tiniest muscle.

And Villanelle submits to it, her hands loosening in Eve’s dark, unruly curls but not leaving them, not yet. She sighs into Eve, head tilting as Eve trails kisses back down her neck and over her clavicle.

Villanelle’s skin is warm beneath her mouth, probably a degree more than it should be, and she tastes sweet and salty all at the same time.

Eve savours every bit of it, uncertain whether she’ll get the same leisurely opportunity to explore once Villanelle is back to full strength.

_This is heaven._

“Stop.”

“Stop?”

Villanelle nods hurriedly.

“Get off.”

Eve freezes for a moment, stunned as all the air seems to evaporate from her lungs. Her body still coursing with adrenaline.

“Okay?” She scrambles from Villanelle’s lap and stands up shakily, feet lost in the puddle of Susan’s discarded crochet blanket. Eve feels a momentary kinship with it. “Did I...? Are you alright?”

Villanelle gives a very small shake of her head, and Eve sees a familiar expression begin to creep over her features. There’s a haziness in her eyes and a slackness in her jaw, and suddenly it all makes sense.

Ooohhh...

Villanelle sneezes, over and over again, hands cupped to her face as she does her best to shield Eve from the onslaught.

“Shit,” Eve murmurs, unable to do anything except helplessly watch this traffic jam of sneezes finally spill out.

It feels intimate. And it’s so ugly it’s beautiful, to see her like this: completely undone.


	8. Crescendo

Several minutes and several tissues later, Eve finds herself still standing in the blanket puddle. 

Villanelle isn’t happy. Eve can tell because she has a great big pout on her face, which also happens to feature a very kissable looking bottom lip. For Eve this creates great inner turmoil. On the one hand she wants to be there for Villanelle, to make her feel better, and on the other she wants to forget the whole thing and go back to kissing her. And the second hand is a hell of a lot more distracting than the first.

“I’m not happy,” Villanelle breathes out on a shuddering breath.

“No,” Eve decides to play it safe. She’s recalls a tactic she read in a book about calming witnesses: describe what you see. “You look very upset.” 

_Good. A solid start._

Another shuddering breath from Villanelle, and a cough this time, her pout deepening.

“I’ve had a really terrible few weeks.”

_Okay this is progress, definite progress..._

“You’ve had a really terrible few weeks,” Eve winces. _It’s describe what you see, idiot, not repeat what you hear!_

“A lot of bad things have happened.”

“Okay,” Eve steps out from the crochet web cautiously, taking a seat again beside Villanelle on the sofa. “I have to admit I’m not quite sure how we’ve got here from where we were ten minutes ago but...oh God, are you crying?”

“No,” Villanelle sniffs, and then starts to nod as a few tears betray her and leak down her cheeks. “Yes.”

“Shit.” _Shit, shit, shit._

“It’s like everything I touch,” Villanelle makes the sound of something combusting and then cries harder.

“Oh, come on, I’m sure it’s not been that bad,” Eve attempts weakly. “I mean technically you didn’t kill that Rhian girl, right? If a train hit her...” Eve frowns to herself. _Awful example._ “And, and you got me that lovely bus cake for my birthday, remember? That was nice.”

“I made you another cake too,” Villanelle sniffles quietly, tears still falling. “It had cherries. But it was too disgusting to send.” 

“It’s the thought that counts,” Eve instils confidently. “See? That’s two nice things already.”

“I killed my whole family, Eve.”

_Ah._

“Really? All of them?” _As though only slaughtering half of her family would make it somehow less horrific..._

“Not my two brothers,” Villanelle wipes at her tears and grabs another tissue for her running nose. “I got them tickets to see Elton John.” 

“Also a nice gesture...”

“But,” Villanelle tears up all over again. “I filled their house with gasoline and blew it up. With our mother inside.”

“Yeah, that’s not so easily overlooked I guess...”

“I stole a baby.”

“Um...”

“And I killed his mother, too. And his nanny.”

“That’s...not great...”

“And now I’m sick. So sick I can’t even kiss you properly,” Villanelle starts to full on sob and Eve places an uncertain but comforting hand on her back.

_And that’s the part that makes her sob uncontrollably?_

“Ssh, ssh,” Eve soothes, pulling Villanelle into her chest. She expects some resistance; but to her surprise Villanelle melts into her, spilling more weepy, warm tears that smear onto Eve’s skin and bleed black into the dark blue of her shirt. “It’s okay,” Eve finds herself whispering, which on the face of it seems to be insane: to be comforting someone who just confessed to multiple murders, who’s literally killed hundreds of people. _But Villanelle is so much more than her monster,_ Eve reasons to herself. “You’re so hot."

“Are you serious?” Villanelle’s voice is hoarse and her breathing ragged, hiccuping every so often from all the crying. “I told you I’m in no fit state for sex, Eve.”

“Oh my God,” Eve throws her head back, on the cusp of a laugh. “No! I mean you have a fever!”

“Oh,” Villanelle’s shoulders drop a bit, her expression tired. “I do feel a bit weird,” she sniffs before adding: “Emotional.”

“It’s good to feel things.”

Villanelle shakes her head.

“It doesn’t feel good.”

“Not always, no,” Eve sighs, stroking a few stray hairs from Villanelle’s flushed face. “But sometimes it does. Sometimes it can feel really good.”

“Maybe,” she settles, dipping back into Eve’s side. “By the way, thanks for before.”

“Hmm?”

“You know, for fixing my nose.”

Eve chuckles.

A comfortable silence settles over them then, and Eve welcomes it. Cuddling up with Villanelle feels like the right sort of conclusion to all the angst, lust and tears they’ve been through. And she isn’t just talking about today. There’s been months and months of it, all building up to this big, exhausting crescendo.

Villanelle yawns hugely, as though on cue, her head growing a little heavier against Eve’s chest.

“Don’t you dare go to sleep,” Eve interjects. “I’m trying very hard to do better at this whole looking after you thing, and you need medicine.”

Villanelle makes a small, displeased noise before murmuring: “Can’t you just suck at looking after me for five more minutes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh so I couldn't resist posting it all, I know there's nothing worse than an unfinished fic (and I know what I'm like haha). I hope you all liked where it ended up. I didn't actually expect it to end this soon, but it felt right...
> 
> If anyone's got any ideas for my next one please leave them in the comments. I'm still feeling the post 3x08 context … probably will until season 4, let's be honest!

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment / leave kudos and let me know if you want more :)


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